Struck by You
by L. Greene
Summary: After Gabriel's death, his Father raises him. The problem is that no one remembers who he is - not even him. Will he ever remember? M for later smut, Sabriel, hints of Destiel. Two parts. Follows canon through 5.19 "Hammer of the Gods." No later spoilers. Complete! Companion piece "Paralyzed" now complete!
1. Part One: Struck by You

_The dull ache in Gabriel's chest subsided. He suddenly felt himself floating—no, flying—and his wings stretched out for the first time in a very long time, and it felt good. _But that can't be right_, he reasoned. _I'm _dead_.

_Lucifer, his own brother, had plunged that blade into his chest. Killed him. Scorched his wings into the floorboards underneath his now-empty vessel._

_He was dead. What was going on? When an angel, even an archangel, died, that was it. The end. Nothing else. Human souls went to Heaven or Purgatory or Hell, but angels didn't have souls, they had Grace. Once they died, their Grace died, too, and then they were just gone._

_So what was happening? He couldn't see or hear, but he could feel, and flying, soaring towards something—he could feel that._

_Then, just as suddenly as the familiar sensation of flying started, it stopped and he landed, and he was filled with something he hadn't felt in millennia: Heavenly Grace. He knew this presence. Without conscious thought, Gabriel fell to his knees, his face to the ground. He still couldn't see, but he could hear now and could still feel, although it wasn't a physical thing he felt. He sensed it, knew it—there was no doubt in his mind. It was his Father._

"_Gabriel, my child. I have missed you."_

_His throat tightened. He knew of his Father's unconditional love, but he'd never really been on the receiving end of it before this. His one true act requiring his Father's forgiveness had been leaving his family eons ago, and he hadn't returned since then. But now, he just knew that despite his long absence, He still welcomed him home._

"_Father," his voice somehow choked out, but it was all he could manage. He fought the tears that pricked at his eyes._

"_It is alright, Gabriel. I know. I understand everything."_

_Of course He did. He was his Father. He was nothing but love and understanding. Gabriel's heart almost burst._

"_I could never be angry with you. I know why you did everything you have ever done. I have long since forgiven you."_

_Hearing Him actually say the words was too much. Gabriel wept now, telling himself he didn't deserve his Father's forgiveness, but He'd forgiven him anyway. It was a relief, a weight he hadn't felt until it had been lifted. He never knew how much he needed to hear it until he had. _Why? Why would You forgive me?

"_I am not done with you yet, Gabriel. I know what Lucifer did, but you are not done. I am the Lord, and as I raised Lazarus, as I raised Dean Winchester, so I shall raise you."_

You're sending me back?_ He'd barely thought the words before his Father was answering them._

"_Yes, Gabriel. I am sending you back to Earth. The Winchesters still need you, and _you_ need _them_."_

_A thrill of hope ran through him at His words, but he didn't know why. _Lucifer will kill me again once he finds out I'm still alive. Or Michael will. They'll rip me apart. They're gonna eat me alive.

"_Michael and Lucifer will not discover you until you are ready. An archangel's presence would set off certain triggers, but I will it to not be so."_

But Castiel—

"_Castiel will not recognize you. Nor will the Winchesters, or anyone else on Earth."_

You're giving me a new vessel?_ He really hoped so. He was kind of sick of having to look up at most of the people he encountered. When he'd taken this vessel all those millennia ago, sixty-eight (well, sixty-seven and three quarters, but he rounded up) inches was on the low end of tall, and meeting someone taller than six feet was almost unheard-of. Now, it was on the high end of short, and he was annoyed by it. Now that his vessel had finally died, maybe he could get one that was a decent height._

"_No, Gabriel. I am returning you in the same vessel. I am changing the memories of every living being that ever encountered you. They will remember the Trickster, Loki, the archangel Gabriel much differently than how you are."_

Well, damn._ The words flew out of his head before he could stop them, and he braced himself for an immediate smiting._

_Laughter rang through the space around him and he slowly realized it was his Father's laughter. It filled him with more joy than truly comprehendible because he hadn't heard it in so long, and it was because of him that He was laughing. Very few beings could make his Father laugh like that, but Gabriel was one of them. "All these years, my child, and you still have not changed. I would not have it any other way. Anyone else would grovel, but _you_…" He laughed again, and Gabriel knew what He meant._

_Anyone else would grovel. Gabriel would swear in front of his own Father. True, he had prostrated himself, but no one could help that reaction to His presence. He swore, and his Father laughed._

"_Oh, Gabriel. I have missed you. Never forget that I love you."_

_The weeping threatened to start again. _I won't.

"_I command you, Gabriel, my child, to return to Earth and complete your mission. In return, you will be rewarded." Suddenly, Gabriel felt his Father's hand on his head. "Go now."_

_There was a sudden flash of light, and he felt himself falling._

* * *

There's a thundering sound. The smell of something smoking. A crash. Numbness. Seconds or hours or days or years later, the sound of sirens. The feel of scorched earth. The taste of ash.

The feeling of being jostled, moved. The sound of strangers yelling things at each other. The smell of what is supposed to pass as clean. Then, finally, the movement stops, to be replaced by a sharp prick of pain, then blissfully, nothing. Nothing except blackness and the steady sound of beeping. No pain, just dark and that one constant tone.

* * *

How much later it is, I can't say. It feels like weeks, but perhaps it's because I've been floating and drifting on a steady drip of painkillers with no concept of the time that's passed. Doctors come and I allow my eyes to open, taking in the sunlight coming through the window and the neutral blue of the room. I am asked if I'm alright, how much pain I'm in, what my name is.

Yes.

None.

I don't know.

The doctors and nurses seem astonished at my condition. They tell me that, upon my arrival, they took X-rays. I had no fractures anywhere. My heartbeat was strong. Brain activity was normal. No signs of internal bleeding. I was in perfect physical health, a scientific impossibility because, at their best guess, I was struck by a meteor. They say this trauma would explain why I don't remember anything—because I don't. I try to remember back before this room, and I remember nothing. It's like I've just been born.

I feel every second of the two days that pass between the day I open my eyes and the day the two young-looking men in suits arrive to see me. I have my eyes closed, attempting to sleep, until I hear one of them clear his throat. One's tall with a wide, well-muscled frame, brown hair that fell behind his ears, and soft hazel eyes. The other is shorter, but still tall, with a slim build, short sandy-brown hair, and green eyes that have seen too much. They flash badges that I don't bother to look at, and the shorter one says, "I'm Agent Lee. This is my partner, Agent Nicholson." He gestures to a glass of water on the table next to me. "Want some water?"

I don't answer. I just reach for it and drink it. Seeming satisfied, he says, "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

He's lying about their names, but he's not worried about getting caught. He's lied about his name so many times that he can effortlessly spill it. I choose to ignore it, though. "Sure, go ahead."

"Okay, what's your name?" the taller one, "Nicholson," asks.

I tell him the same thing I tell the doctors and nurses every time they ask. "I don't know."

He blinks. "You don't remember?"

"I don't know," I repeat.

"What _do_ you know?" "Lee" asks.

"It's theorized that I was struck by a meteor, and I'm lying in a hospital bed, perfectly healthy except for being a blank slate."

"You don't remember what happened to you?"

"Sorry, boys. Nothing."

Nicholson and Lee exchange glances before the taller one says, "Anything else you might want to tell us?"

I nod. "Yeah. I want something to eat. Something sweet."

Apparently, after they leave, they tell one of the nurses what I said, because the next time a meal arrives for me, there's a small bowl of ice cream on the tray along with what passes for chicken and mashed potatoes. I ignore the rest of the food and scarf down the ice cream.

I tell one of the nurses I'm bored—actually, I think I _whine_ that I'm bored—so she brings me a copy of the Bible. I read it even though it bores me. The authors skim over the interesting parts of the battles between the Israelites and the enemies of the day. Still, reading it gives me an idea. The next time the doctors ask me for my name, I tell them it's Gabriel but that I don't remember my last name.

I like the name Gabriel.

They ask me if I remember my birthday. I tell them I don't and later, when they leave, I mull it over. No date seems significant, so I let it go. I don't really care how old I am. I look fairly young—maybe thirty years old at the most—so I decide that, if anyone asks, I'm twenty-seven years old.

Three days after they first arrived, Agents Lee and Nicholson return, this time with a fistful of papers and determined expressions. The taller one speaks to several doctors and the shorter one enters the room and tosses a duffle bag at me. "Get dressed," he says. "You're being transferred."

He's lying. Again. I don't care.

I unzip the bag and pull out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, shoes, socks, and underwear. Once I unhook myself from the few machines to which I'm still attached, I dress. Everything fits fairly well except the shoes, which are huge. Once I'm dressed, I stand up for the first time and he holds the door open. I exit first.

The bigger one is just outside the door, watching as a doctor signs something while she looks utterly bewildered. He looks at me, then at the other one, and once the doctor finishes flipping through the pages again, he picks the papers up and they escort me from the hospital.

They're both taller than me, I note with a small amount of dissatisfaction. It makes me feel like a child even though I look older than the bigger one, maybe both of them.

I wonder what's going on but don't bother asking. They'll lie to me. So I let them take me out of the building and into the parking lot to a black boat-like car creatively named Impala. The taller one opens the backseat door for me and I slide in. He gets in the passenger's side and the shorter one gets in the driver's seat, pulls out a set of keys, starts up the car, and pulls out of the parking lot.

Ten minutes pass in silence. I stare out the window, ignoring the way "Agent Lee" keeps peering at me in the rearview. Finally, I hear him ask, "So aren't you gonna ask what's happening?"

"Not if you're going to keep lying to me," I say, not looking at him.

I hear the bigger one chuckle softly.

"Alright, then. For real. My name is Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam. Do you still not remember your name?"

"I've been calling myself Gabriel."

They're both quiet for a few moments before Sam says, "So… Gabriel. What are you?"

It's such a strange question that I have to look at him. He's twisted in his seat to look at me. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"You're… you're not human. We're pretty sure, anyway. We saw the photos from where the ambulance picked you up and if you got hit by a meteor—and it really looks like you did—then no human could have survived it. But you don't have a scratch on you. So… what are you?"

Human? I don't know. "I don't know, boys."

"We know you're not a demon, at least," Dean says. "So that's a good sign."

"How do you know that?"

"The water you drank. It was holy water. Demons don't like the stuff, to say the least."

I nod.

"We can't really think of a whole lot of things that could survive being hit by a meteor like you were."

"So what are your theories?"

Dean and Sam exchange a quick glance before Dean says, "An angel."

"I don't _feel_ like an angel."

"Well, we'll figure it out," Sam says.

"Not like we don't have _other_ crap to worry about," Dean grumbles.

"Why do you even care?"

"Because we…" Sam glances at Dean. "We're hunters. Monster hunters. Typically ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters… all sorts of things that go bump in the night."

"And asshole angel hunters," Dean adds.

"Right. So… we can probably figure out what you are pretty quick."

I know I should feel worried, like these two are clearly insane, but I don't. They're telling the truth—at least they think they are—and I get the feeling that they're mostly there. "And decide whether or not I need to be killed."

They're both silent until Sam says, "I guess so, yeah. But if it makes you feel any better, I don't think what you are is evil." He smiles.

My heart swells until my chest hurts. I feel like I've seen that smile before. Without thinking, I smile back.

"Are you hearing any voices? Having visions? We won't think you're crazy or anything," he adds quickly, but I already know that.

"No. Just you. Unless you're part of my hallucinations, I think I'm okay."

Sam laughs and I want to laugh, too.

They don't ask me any more questions for another hour and I don't try to ask them anything. I watch the scenery roll by, wonder where we're going, decide I don't care. Finally, Sam asks, "Still want candy?"

_YES!_ My head twitches toward the front and I hold out my hand in silent confirmation. He grins and deposits a candy bar in my hand. I barely register the word _Butterfinger_ before tearing open the yellow wrapper. "Delicious," I say, earning another grin from Sam—and one from Dean, if the ghost of an expression across his face can be called a grin.

* * *

We stop at a seedy little motel an hour or so before nightfall. I stay in the car with Sam while Dean goes to the front desk to get a room. I get the impression that Sam has been assigned, by an unspoken command, to watch me, but I don't care to flee. I'm filled with such apathy for my situation that I wonder how I'm not dead already.

Sam says nothing to me as we wait for Dean to return, and I say nothing to him. Not because I don't wonder about _him_—because I do—but because I can't think of anything to say. But somehow, I trust Sam and his brother, so when Dean returns with two sets of keys in his hand, I follow them to the room.

There's two beds and a sofa and I can already feel that I'm going to be made to take the sofa—not that it matters. As Dean hauls a duffle bag to the bathroom and Sam flops onto one of the beds, I sit the couch and turn on the television, wondering if it'll jog anything in my memory, but it doesn't. The dancing images just annoy me, so I turn it off, lean back, and close my eyes.

I hear Dean sigh as he exits the bathroom and Sam stands and takes his place. They're changing out of their suits, which they've been wearing for the last six hours. I don't blame them—if I had been wearing those suits, I'd be dying to get out of them, too. It makes me a little happy that they gave me jeans and a T-shirt to wear.

Sam finally comes back out and there's an awkward silence until Dean breaks it, saying, "I'm getting food." Again, Sam is being left to watch me. As if I'll take off the moment I'm alone. I want to tell them that if I really cared to leave, I could do it with them watching me or not, that I could have just left the hospital whenever I wanted, but I don't. I could leave but I have literally nowhere to go. I don't even know where I am right now.

Without really waiting for an answer, Dean gets up, keys in hand, and leaves the room. He slams the door behind him, and the silence is so heavy that I barely hear the engine of the Impala turn over and the car pull out of the lot.

Sam doesn't look at me. If he's avoiding it or if he's preoccupied, I can't tell, but I decide I need to know a little bit more about whatever is going on. "So, kiddo, if I'm allowed to ask, where are you and Dean taking me?"

Sam gives me a funny look when I call him "kiddo," but it was either that or Sasquatch (I know he can't help it, but I still can't quite forgive him for being that much taller than me) and it seems easy to call him that. "To see a few friends of ours. Bobby and Cas. Bobby's pretty smart, a lot of experience with this whole hunting business, and Cas… well, he knows a lot about the supernatural, too. I think that with the four of us working on it, we can probably figure out who or what you are."

"And you're still pretty much convinced I'm not human?"

"Well, you _look_ human, but that doesn't mean much. I mean, I guess we can't rule it out, but it seems unlikely. Really, though, I have no idea what you could be. It's probably nothing Dean and I have ever seen before."

"So…" I move to sit cross-legged on the floor across from him. "If I'm something bad, you're going to kill me."

He doesn't respond, but I know the answer is yes.

"But what if I'm… _not_ bad?" I hesitate to use the word "good" to describe me. I don't really feel evil, but I don't feel like I'm good, either.

"I guess… depending on what you are, if you're powerful, we'll probably ask you to help us."

"With what?"

He bites his lip in a way that probably isn't supposed to be sexy but it is and so help me, I think I'm staring. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to notice; he's too busy weighing his next words. Finally, he sighs and says, "Averting the Apocalypse. I mean, it's already started, but we're trying to… I guess undo it."

"The Apocalypse?"

"Yeah. Armageddon, the end of days, culminating in a showdown between the archangel Michael and his brother, the fallen angel Lucifer. We're kind of trying to keep it from happening."

"Are there other hunters helping you?"

"Kind of. Dean and I just have a particularly vested interest in preventing it is all."

"Why?"

Once again, he has that look on his face like he's trying to decide what to tell me and what to keep from me. I wait patiently, absently rocking back and forth, before he says, "Dean and I are supposed to be Michael and Lucifer's vessels."

I don't understand a word. "Come again?"

"Angels and demons are similar in that they can take control of a human body and basically live in them. We tend to call it a meat-suit," he adds with a half-grin. "But whereas demons can take possession of any person they want, angels have to have permission from the human. Lucifer has been trying to hunt me down because… well, he did find a vessel, some guy named Nick, but since Nick isn't his true vessel, his body is starting to deteriorate. Lucifer is too powerful for Nick. But I'm Lucifer's supposed true vessel, so if I say yes, he'll be free to wreak all the havoc he wants. And as for Michael, we haven't encountered him yet, but a bunch of other angels have been trying to convince Dean to say yes to him. I'm sure you can tell by now, but Dean isn't the type to just let someone control him. So we're trying to avert the Apocalypse to avoid either of us having to say yes to these feathery dicks."

I laugh at his description of them.

"Of course, preventing the decimation of most of the planet's population is also kind of a big incentive," he adds.

"So why you two? Do you know?"

"Y-yeah. We know. Dean inadvertently broke the First Seal, and I broke the last." I must have a blank look on my face, because Sam explains further. "There are six-hundred-some Seals—or there were—on the box that Lucifer's been in for the last I don't know how many years. To set him free and start the Apocalypse, only sixty-six needed to be broken. Any sixty-six would do, mostly, except for the first and the last which were non-negotiable. The first was a righteous man torturing souls in Hell. The last was the first of Lucifer's creations, a demon named Lilith, being killed."

"So… Dean went to Hell?"

"Yeah. He sold his soul to save my life. Then a year later, he got dragged into Hell."

"So how is he here now?"

"Our friend Cas got him out."

"How?"

"That's a long story," he says after a moment. "I'll let him explain it when you meet him tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay. And so you killed Lilith?"

"Yes. I didn't realize that killing her was the final Seal. I knew she had something to do with it and we thought that she was going to break the Seal, so I decided to just kill her first. And then the goddamn Apocalypse started."

"Wow. You two have been busy."

He laughs mirthlessly. "Yeah, you could say that. Trying to run around, cleaning up after our mistakes." He's upset about something in particular, so I pry further.

"What? What is it?"

"Just…" Again with the "how much do I tell this guy" look before he finally decides to spill it all—or at least most of it. "If I hadn't broken the last Seal, none of this would have started. Lucifer wouldn't have gotten free. He already killed someone who really could have helped us out. I mean, he could be kind of a dick, too, but he was powerful and we could have convinced him to help."

"Who?"

"He was an archangel."

"An archangel? That's kind of trippy."

"Yeah."

"I mean, there's only seven to begin with, and one of them is gone. That's… that's really messed-up."

"Seven?"

"Yeah." Their names effortlessly pour out of my mouth. "Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Sealtiel, Jegudiel, and Barachiel. If one of them is dead…" Then I notice the look he gives me. Pure confusion. "What?"

"How do you know that?"

I blink. How _do_ I know that? "I… I don't know. I have no idea where that came from."

"Wow."

A beat before I ask. "Which one?"

"Which one, what?"

"Which archangel did Lucifer kill?"

He looks like he doesn't want to tell me, but he finally does. "Gabriel. Lucifer killed Gabriel."

_The wrath and vengeance of Heaven is gone._

_Where the Hell did _that_ come from?_ "What a dick."

Abruptly, he laughs, and a warm feeling washes over me. "Yeah, I agree. He's a huge dick."

We pass a few more minutes in a companionable silence before Dean returns with a bag full of burgers, which he passes out, and a tray of drinks. He hands one to me and one to Sam, keeping the last one for himself. After a moment where it looks like he's trying to decide something, he fishes out something else from the bottom of the bag and hands it to me.

More candy. Another Butterfinger. I grin, ignore the burger he passed to me a few moments ago, and tear into it.

* * *

I'm right about the sleeping situation: Dean and Sam get the beds, and I settle into the couch. The lights flip off around ten and I roll onto my side, away from them, and run my fingers through my hair.

The first time I got a good look at my reflection, it somehow surprised me. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I saw. My hair is golden-blond, long, hitting the back of my neck before curling up a little at the end. I can't say I think much of the color, but it's soft, so I accept it. I like my eyes better, a dark green that could almost be called golden as well, but not quite. I think my favorite feature, though, is my sideburns. Before I forgot everything about myself, I had these sideburns grown out deliberately, and I like them. I decided almost immediately to keep them.

The worst part is the height, though. Man, I _hate_ being shorter than most of the people I encounter. It's not fair.

Light breaks hours later, and still the Winchester brothers sleep on. I'm bored and toy with the idea of getting breakfast, but I don't have a wallet or money or _anything_ on me, so I can't. I want to get out of here, I'm feeling restless and bored, but I can't go anywhere until the Winchesters wake up. I snap my fingers softly, strangely comforted by the sound.

Finally, at around eight, they wake up and stretch. I almost bound off the couch but resist the urge. I can't stop myself from bouncing on my feet, though. Sam looks at me and almost laughs. Dean looks at me and almost scowls.

"I think he's ready to leave," Sam says at Dean's sour expression.

"Yeah? Well, I am, too. Calm down," he says to me. I stop bouncing but start snapping my fingers anxiously again. Dean covers his face with his hands for a moment before mumbling, "I'm taking a shower," and heading off to the bathroom.

Sam curls back up under the covers and I start pacing the carpet anxiously. Sometime before laying down last night, I took off my shoes and socks, and even though the carpet looks dirty, it's actually clean, and I like feeling it under my feet. Fortunately, I don't have to pace long—Dean comes out of the bathroom about ten minutes later looking more awake than he did before. "Who wants breakfast?" he asks, clapping his hands together and rubbing them.

I could eat. I'm not exactly hungry, but something sweet sounds good. Then again, it always does.

They decide on IHOP, which is short for the International House of Pancakes, and while Sam goes for some omelet—something under the "low-carb" options—and Dean gets something with extra bacon, I order a stack of S'More pancakes and make it a point of asking for extra syrup. It's delicious but they stare at me while I wolf it down. I don't really care, though.

We're back on the road within an hour and I stretch out on the backseat, trying to get comfortable, but my back is sore right around my shoulder blades and I can't figure out why, except for maybe lying on the couch all night. It's the only explanation I can think of. I close my eyes and rest, but I can still hear them talking when they think I've fallen asleep.

"I'm not surprised," Sam murmurs softly in response to something I didn't hear. "I woke up a few times last night. I don't think he slept at all."

"That's creepy."

"Yeah, but he's with two total strangers. He probably thought—_thinks_—we're gonna kill him the moment we get a chance."

"We've _had_ chances. We've had all the chance in the world to kill him."

"Yeah, but still. If I were in Gabriel's shoes, I probably wouldn't be sleeping so well, either."

I feel Dean's eyes on me from the rearview mirror, but I keep my eyes shut. "So, any more ideas on what this guy is?"

"I still think an angel is most likely, but apart from surviving being hit by a meteor, he hasn't shown any powers. Could he just be a really blank slate? I mean, Anna was—"

"Anna ripped out her Grace." Dean's voice sounds strained. "Then she was born as a human. She had Angel Radio in her head twenty-four-seven for a few months, but she did remember at some point. This guy says he doesn't hear voices. This meteor or whatever the hell it was hit him two weeks ago, and he's a freaking adult, not a baby. Yeah, he's a blank slate, but he probably _isn't_ an angel."

_Angel Radio?_

"But Cas will know for sure, won't he?"

"I freakin' hope so. Any other theories, smart guy?"

"A human amnesiac."

Dean sighs. "Alright, fine. If he's human, he's got a family or friends or _something_. Call Bobby and have him check for missing persons fitting our guy's description starting around the area where he was found and working out from there. He probably didn't get very far from home when he was hit, so… I mean, someone's gotta be looking for him, right?" I notice that he doesn't ever say my name.

I hear Sam dialing and a moment later, he starts talking. "Hey, Bobby. Look, we found… well, we're not sure who or what he is. He's calling himself Gabriel."

"And that's another thing—" Dean starts, but when I peek from under my lashes, I see Sam waving for Dean to shut up.

"We need you to run a check on missing persons, just in case he actually _is_ human." The distorted sound of someone asking something. "About five-foot-eight, maybe a buck fifty. Longer golden hair, olive-green eyes. No other identifying marks, no scars or tattoos or anything. At least, nothing that's visible in a T-shirt and jeans." More muffled words. "Yeah. We asked. He doesn't remember. Apparently, everything before the hospital is just gone. He's like a walking, talking newborn. No name, no age, no birth date, no memories." A garbled response. "I think angel. Dean disagrees, but doesn't have any counter-theories. Cas should be able to tell, though." Question. "I asked. He doesn't think he's _not_ human, but he isn't sure." Another question. "Yeah, we're on our way now. Should be another couple of hours." Silence, and then Sam asks as if the idea just occurred to him, "Hey, so I have a question. What do you think about a fallen Trickster or something? A Trickster without his powers?"

Dean can't keep his mouth shut any longer. "Wait, really? I thought it was all the one guy, just… just Loki."

"Dean, shut up. Look," he says, to Bobby this time, "yeah, we thought all the Tricksters were actually just one being, but is it possible we were wrong? Maybe he had protégés or something? Maybe…" I hear his breathing hitch. "What if all the Tricksters just _looked_ like Loki through some sort of binding magic or something, and once he died, the spell broke or something? I mean, he j…" His voice falters for a moment. "He just died a few weeks ago. So like if the spell broke and took Loki's image and his powers, it could theoretically wipe out all the Tricksters' memories. We should scour other hospitals to find out if there are others with the same thing turning up—blank slates, but perfectly healthy apart from that."

_Loki? The Norse god?_ I'm completely baffled, but I manage to continue feigning sleep.

"Well, he's been eating sugary crap like it's going out of style. The Trickster had a sweet tooth. It's weird—it's the first thing he asked for at the hospital."

Bobby says something, and Sam answers with, "Thanks. Call us if you get any hits." He hangs up the phone and Dean says, "A 'fallen Trickster'? Really?"

"Dean, shut up."

"Are you _trying_ to pin this back to him, or—"

"Dean, _shut up._" I can hear the pain in his voice, but Dean either can't or doesn't care, because he presses Sam further.

"You _want_ him to be a Trickster, don't you? Even a Trickster without his powers. Because then you get to have a little piece of him again, don't you?"

"You have Cas," Sam murmurs softly, almost whining. "And you didn't get him killed."

"Neither did you."

A silence falls again, and my head is spinning. _What's a Trickster? What does Loki have to do with this? And why does Sam seem to care so much about him?_ I try not to feel jealous because I don't know where it's coming from, but I can't help it. I just can't let them know. Resolutely, I keep my eyes closed until I feel the car roll to a stop a few hours later and the engine finally turns off. I sit up and hug my knees to my chest, looking around as Sam and Dean get out of the car. Dean walks up to the house that's in front of us, but Sam opens my door and says, "You need to come in, too."

I slink out of the backseat and follow him anxiously to the door. Dean's already inside and an older man in a ball cap with a scruffy gray beard is waiting just inside the hall.

"Bobby," Sam says, "this is Gabriel." He gestures to me. "Gabriel, this is Bobby."

I flash him a winning smile and he reluctantly shakes my hand.

"Thank God you two are back. That freaking angel is starting to get on my last nerve."

"He talking about Dean again?" Sam says, trying not to laugh.

"No, the talking I don't mind. You know Dean never shuts up. But it's the staring." Bobby pops his eyes wide and tilts his head to the side in what's probably an imitation of Cas, but I don't know since I've never seen the guy.

Sam actually laughs and leads me through the foyer into the living room.

Dean's in there, standing incredibly close to a man an inch or two shorter than him—but still taller than me, _damn it!_—with dark, messy hair and clear blue eyes. The first thing I register is the almost tangible bond between them; they care about each other _a lot_ more than they let on to each other or even themselves, but they subconsciously feel it and gravitate toward each other. The second thing I register is that Cas—this has to be Cas—has an almost otherworldly air about him. He isn't human. I can feel it.

Cas's eyes flicker to me, and he pulls himself away from Dean and toward me. Dean's two steps behind him, though. Cas scrutinizes my face and I should feel uncomfortable under his gaze, but I don't. Finally he says in a sleepy, gravelly voice, "My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord."

I blink at him because, really, what am I supposed to say to that? "Um, hi, buddy. I'm Gabriel. I don't know who or what I am."

He looks me over again, and then without another word, he raises his hand and presses the heel of it to my forehead. My eyes drift close.

He's looking for something in my head. I feel the past six days rewinding, fortunately skimming past my jealousy over Sam's emotions, backwards through the car ride, the motel, the other ride, the hospital, the flash of light, and then… nothing. His hand leaves my face and I slowly open my eyes.

Castiel looks truly mystified. As he speaks, his eyes never leave my face. "There's nothing there. Just… empty. Like…" He mentally searches for an analogy, then finally comes up with, "Like when you rewind a cassette and you get to the very beginning and there's nothing beyond that."

I have no idea where he got this analogy from, but it makes sense.

"Do you recognize anything? Feel anything? He has an aura, doesn't he?" Sam asks.

"Every living thing has an aura. I don't know what Gabriel is, but I do know that he's not human."

"Well, that's one mystery cleared up," Dean says sarcastically.

Castiel's eyes widen a bit and he cocks his head to one side. I suddenly remember Bobby's impression and it's not a bad imitation. "I feel as though I have encountered your aura before, but I can't place it."

"An angel, maybe?" Sam asks.

He narrows his eyes a bit and shakes his head. "No, I would recognize another angel."

"How about a Trickster?" Sam asks.

Castiel contemplates it. "I cannot tell. It's possible. Then again, he could be vampire. I simply cannot tell."

"But I'm definitely not human?"

"Definitely not human," Castiel confirms.

* * *

That night, I'm relegated to the couch again. Sam, Dean, and Bobby all get beds but Castiel stays in the living room with me all night, just watching. I guess angels don't need sleep because we simply stare at each other for nine hours until the other three come back downstairs.

"Morning, Cas," Dean says sleepily, stretching as he yawns.

"He didn't sleep," Castiel says without preamble, still looking at me.

Dean suddenly looks more awake. "Didn't sleep at all?"

"No."

"Maybe he only sleeps during the day." Dean casts me a glance that somehow manages to be both concerned and suspicious.

"I don't get tired. The only time I slept was at the hospital under whatever painkillers they gave me. And I don't even think I actually slept."

"What about in the car yesterday?"

"I was awake," I confess, grinning. "I heard everything. What's Loki got to do with Tricksters?"

Dean groans in frustration and goes to report this new update to Sam and Bobby.

Castiel leaves the room—_finally_—and Sam appears a few moments later. "Hungry?" he asks me.

"I could eat." It's not a lie. I can _always_ eat.

"Alright. I'll take you to get some breakfast."

I follow him out of the house, skirting past where Dean, Castiel, and Bobby are talking softly in the kitchen, and slide into the passenger's seat next to Sam.

"Dean let you drive his car?" I ask as he puts the Impala in reverse and pulls away from the house.

Sam half-grins. "Maybe 'let' isn't the right word… But I don't feel like driving Bobby's truck and it's the only other vehicle that actually runs."

I had noticed the cars piled up behind the house. Apparently Bobby runs a junk shop. I grin. "I think I like you, Sammy Winchester."

The smile slides off his face. "Don't call me Sammy," he mutters, looking more sad than annoyed.

"Sorry, kiddo." A tiny part of me wants to curl up in a ball and tell Sam how sorry I am for whatever it was I just did, but a much larger part has a question that I can't contain. "Why are you being so nice to me? Dean and Castiel—"

"I know. They're treating you like a monster, right? But I know how that feels. I mean, being Lucifer's true vessel kind of does that. Makes you feel like a monster. But I don't want you to feel lonely. You're all alone right now—who knows if you even have family?"

I try to force my grin to stay on my face. "So I guess Bobby's missing-persons search didn't turn anything up?"

"Out of all the missing persons in the country, not one is a five-foot-eight, hundred-and-fifty pound Caucasian man with green eyes, blond hair, and no distinguishing features. It's pretty amazing, actually. I thought for sure we would have gotten at least one hit, but it's like there's no one like you anywhere."

"There probably isn't," I quip, and I see a twitch that could be a smile on his lips.

There should always be a smile on his face. I would do anything for that smile, and that sudden realization shakes me. There aren't many things I know for absolute truth right now, but the fact that I would travel to Hell for that smile is one of them.

I try to crack jokes to keep him laughing or at least smiling all throughout breakfast—another stop at the International House of Pancakes. Sometimes the jokes fall flat, and sometimes we draw stares from how loud he laughs. By the end of breakfast, I learn not to joke about his mother (or anyone in his family, really) or Satan, but everything else is fair game. He laughs especially loud over any accidental (or intentional) parallels I draw between teenage girls and a certain pair of lovesick guys, one of whom happens to be his brother and the other of whom happens to be an angel.

"If a total stranger can tell they're crazy about each other, it's pretty bad," he laughs.

I want to ask him about this Loki character, what he has to do with whatever a Trickster is, maybe pry a little more into the archangel Gabriel, but if Sam is to be believed, Loki just died recently and it may be another sensitive subject, and he somehow caused Gabriel's death so that's out. I settle for just asking what a Trickster is, since that's what he thinks I am—or _was_—anyway, now that he's let go of this whole "probably an angel" thing he has. "So," I ask in a way that's intended to be obnoxiously casual. "What's a Trickster?"

"It's this creature that likes to play pranks on people. Sometimes it'll find a… bad person, I guess, and punish them by killing them in an ironic sort of way. Like… okay, the first time we ran into one, he was a janitor at this college. There was a professor there who had affairs with female students, and the Trickster didn't like it, so he created this girl who was supposedly a student of his, only she wasn't. She was based on this local legend of a girl who actually _was_ having an affair with a professor and jumped out of window after he ended it. The legend was just a legend, though. Not real. Anyway, the professor and this illusion got a little… _into_ it, I guess, and he ended up taking a swan dive out of his office window, too. Like the punishment fits the crime, that kind of thing. He doesn't always kill people, though. Like…" He casts his eyes down at the table, pushing at his eggs with his fork. "Right after we met this one, he also had this hazing college student abducted by aliens and put through basically what he put the pledges at his fraternity through. And this other time, he turned me into a car."

"I'm sure you had a lot of junk in your trunk." I don't know how I know that expression, but I have the feeling it refers to ones rear end and I've seen enough of Sam's—albeit through his jeans—that I can safely say I approve.

He snorts with laughter. "He likes pranks and mischief, and if you're a good person, they're mostly harmless, or at least don't cause permanent damage. He did kill Dean over a hundred times during this time loop thing he set up and threw me into."

"Sounds like there's only one of him."

"It seemed like it. Hunters have been 'killing' him for years because we thought there were a bunch, but apparently there was only the one. Dean and I were the first to encounter him more than once and he had the same form. But… but now I'm thinking they were all set up by Loki to look like him and there really were hundreds of them after all."

"And how does Loki tie into that? I mean, a Norse god? Sounds a little melodramatic," I joke.

"Tricksters are demigods. They all have—_had_," he corrected himself, "Loki's form. We think he was the original, the mastermind, the one who started it. And when he was killed, whatever spell or whatever it was that made all those people look like him, gave them his powers, we think it wore off and all the former Tricksters are returning to their original forms. Without their memories or powers, of course, but with a kind of imprint on them, which explains how you don't remember anything, don't have any powers, and don't look like anything we've ever encountered before."

I let this digest for a moment. "So there's a dead Norse god and a dead archangel. That's pretty impressive. What killed Loki?"

"Lucifer."

"Lucifer killed Loki _and_ Gabriel? I would like to amend my previous statement. He is a _massive_ dick."

"Loki and Gabriel were the same being, actually. He was Gabriel the archangel first. Then he left Heaven, left his brothers to their fighting, and reinvented himself as the Norse god Loki. Then, as far as we can figure, after the pagan religions started dying, he reinvented himself again as the Trickster and started creating other Tricksters."

"Still doesn't make Lucifer any less of a massive dick," I point out.

He half-smiles. "I agree with you there."

"So, what's 'Angel Radio'?"

He almost chokes on his bite. "What?"

"Yesterday, in the car. You and Dean were talking about someone named Anna who had 'Angel Radio' in her head. What is it?"

"Oh. Um, well, angels have their own language. Enochian. And since Anna had been an angel but didn't realize it, she could understand it, so she could hear angels talking. It got her locked up with a case of the crazies."

I want to laugh at his choice of words, but something tells me it would be a bit inappropriate, so I don't.

As we drive back to Bobby's, I decide I like the sound of Tricksters. Yeah, the idea of killing innocent people isn't great, but they were killing people who deserved it, and in a manner befitting their sins. They don't seem all that terrible to me, but I know better than to mention it to Sam. Even if he thinks I used to be one.

Then I realize that, if I actually _was_ a Trickster, I probably killed people. I wonder how many evil people's blood is on my hands that I'm not even aware of. I wonder if I'm going to Hell until I remember that I'm not human, _definitely_ not human, and only humans go to Heaven or Hell.

And then I wonder how I know that.

"What happens when Tricksters die?" I ask.

"Their bodies dissolve?" Sam half-asks, half-says. He doesn't understand what I'm asking. I shake my head.

"I mean, do they go somewhere else, like Heaven or Hell, or are they just gone?"

"I don't know. I mean, I assume a lot of the things we kill either go to Hell or just stop existing, but I don't know for sure. Cas would probably know better than me."

I nod and decide to ask Castiel about it the moment we get back.

As it happens, though, I don't get a chance. Dean apparently has issues with people taking his car without permission, especially when no one else knows they're even leaving in the first place. His first thought was that I'd kidnapped Sam and stolen the Impala, which is laughable.

Like I know how to freaking _drive_ or something.

Still, seeing Dean running out the front door as we pull up, yelling something I can't hear but is probably cursing, forces my questions out of my mind. It's kind of hard to tell with whom he's angrier: Sam for taking the Impala or me for simply existing.

Castiel and Bobby finally calm him down, citing both Sam's lack of personal injury and the Impala's lack of new scratches or dings. When I follow Sam back into the house, though, I could swear he winks at me.

* * *

Sam and Dean go off on another hunt a few days later, somewhere just north of San Diego. They leave me behind with Bobby, though, which I try not to resent because this time they take Castiel. I could have forgiven them if they left him behind, too, but the fact that they just leave me kind of reaffirms in my mind that, while they think I _am_ unusual, they don't think I'm useful.

Plus I was kind of hoping that their dynamic-duo thing meant no one else was allowed to hunt with them, but apparently they are. Just not me. The least they could do was teach me how to shoot or something. Maybe then I could be useful.

Because I want to help them. I really do.

Once they return from their hunt, tired and scratched up but thankfully in one piece, I bring it up to them. Bobby had been fairly open to the idea, considering they can't figure out what in Hell I _am_, and promised to back me up on it.

Sam and Dean settle in for dinner (Castiel just stands by and watches—he doesn't need to eat, either) when I say, pretty much out of the blue, "I wanna help."

Sam and Dean stare at me. "With what?" Sam finally asks.

"Hunting. Averting Armageddon. Whatever it is you're doing." I try to pretend I'm not looking at Sam the entire time I talk, as if he holds the entire outcome of this conversation in his hands. "I don't need to eat or sleep. I'm pretty much ideal for working nonstop—plus I can't just flutter off whenever I feel like it," I add, pointedly referring to Castiel's habit of doing just that; his face doesn't shift its blank expression at my words.

I also leave out the part where my upper back keeps hurting at random times. I figured it was laying on couches or on my sides for extended amounts of time, but maybe I just have a messed-up back. Or, even though the X-rays showed nothing wrong with me, maybe it's a result of getting smacked by that meteor.

I have Sam on my side. He wants to say yes. He looks at Dean. "Couldn't hurt. Who knows? He might be pretty handy with a weapon," he adds.

Dean eyes me suspiciously, as well he probably should. I wonder if maybe I was the Trickster who threw him and Sam in the Time Loop. "I don't know. Bobby, what do you think?"

"I think that the more people we have working on this, the better. Especially one that only requires a steady stream of sugar to keep working. I mean, I've tried pretty much every test I can think of on him, short of actually ramming a wooden stake through his chest, and it's not setting off any flags."

I turn my hopeful, pleading eyes on Dean and I sense his resistance crumbling. Finally, he sighs and says, "Alright, but I'm not teaching him to shoot. Someone else can do it."

_Why does he have to call himself Gabriel?_ The thought suddenly appears in my head, but it's not mine. It's Dean's.

I swallow and tune back into what's actually being said just in time to hear Sam's question: "Gabe, have you even changed your clothes this past week?"

Like Castiel ever changes out of _his_ business suit and trench coat? I shrug. "I guess not. I don't have anything else, though."

"Alright, fine. First thing tomorrow, we're getting you some more clothes. You can't wear the same thing every day."

I wonder what's wrong with my T-shirt. It's actually quite comfortable and has two guys with a cross in the background and the quote "Destroy all that which is evil so that which is good may flourish." At the very bottom of the cross is a small logo reading The Boondock Saints. I quite like it, even though I have no idea who or what The Boondock Saints _are_.

I suppose I do need a different pair of shoes, though. The ones I have are so big that I tend to just slip right out of them.

So the next day, I'm stuck in the backseat with Castiel because Dean decided that he needed new clothes, too, and Sam and Dean are in the front and we're heading off to the mall.

Once we get there, I want to drag Sam off to the food court where there's an IHOP Express, but I resist. Still, I can't help eyeing the machines that dispense various types of candies, and he notices. I hear him sigh, but it's not frustrated or annoyed, it's amused, and he pulls a few quarters out of his pocket and comes back with a fistful of candy for me. I start popping the fruit-shaped whatevers in my mouth and smile.

"Okay, where to first?" Dean asks, looking around. Castiel looks completely lost, also looking around, his eyes huge.

"I'm… not sure," he says slowly.

"Look, why don't you take Cas and I'll take Gabe? We can meet back here in an hour, okay?" Sam suggests, and I try to ignore the way my heart flutters. He wants to be alone with me!

"Yeah, but…" Dean looks around again. His eyes are getting wide, too. "I don't know where to go."

"Abercrombie & Fitch? I don't know, just walk around, and figure out what wouldn't make him look like an alien. If you get completely lost, call me." Sam glances at me and gestures for me to follow.

"Bye!" I say cheerily to Dean and Castiel and bound after him. "Where are _we_ going?" I ask after we leave them behind.

"You look like a Buckle type of guy."

"Buckle?"

"Buckle jeans. And Spencer shirts."

Something catches my eye and I whip my head towards a storefront with a leather jacket in the window. "I want _that_," I say, pointing at it.

Sam looks, too. "Yeah, somehow I figured you would." He sighs again and acquiesces, following me into the store.

I have no idea what size I wear, so when I arrive at the rack of jackets matching the black leather one in the window, I grab one and slide it on. The sleeves are so long, they pass my fingertips. I hear Sam stifle a laugh and I turn, glaring. "What?"

"You look a little ridiculous."

I _feel_ a little ridiculous, but I huff as though I feel completely normal, standing here in a jacket that's probably three sizes too big. Maybe four. Still, I slip it off and find a smaller size.

"Here, try this," Sam says, holding up another jacket that he got from I don't know where.

Even though my shoulder blades are starting to throb in protest, I let him help me slide it on and the fit is perfect. The sleeves brush against the heel of my hands and the shoulders curve right where mine do, but the bottom hem falls a little lower than I expected. It still looks _really freaking good_. Sam looks me over, front and back, and something freezes behind his eyes, but he nods. "Yeah, looks good."

I ogle my reflection in the mirror and I have to agree. "Yes, yes, yes! Can I get it?"

He half-laughs and I know I didn't even have to ask. Even if I didn't want it, he'd buy it for me anyway.

We leave the store with me wearing the jacket out and pulling the tags off after Sam's paid for it. I don't bother looking at the price tag—it's probably outrageously expensive and I really don't feel like feeling guilty right now—and instead look up at Sam. I'm still annoyed that he's eight freaking inches taller than me, but I hide it well. "So, I used to be a Trickster," I start.

"That's what I'm thinking."

"So what do Tricksters look like?"

"Like the archangel Gabriel."

I roll my eyes. "Well _yeah_, but I mean, what did _he_ look like?" If I used to wear this guy's face, I want to know what I looked like.

He sighs. "He was tall—taller than me. Dark hair, dark eyes. He almost looked Italian. But he was really thin, too. It was weird."

I wrinkle my nose in displeasure. It doesn't sound right, but Sam's telling the truth. More than that, though, is that if he was taller than Sam, then so was I at some point. "Wish I still looked like that, then."

He doesn't know what to say to this, so I let him off the hook and instead stop short, staring at a display in the window in front of me.

"Oh, God, how did I know?" Sam asks, sighing in a resigned sort of way.

"Can we—?" I start, but he cuts me off.

"We're supposed to be getting you clothes. Not feeding your sugar addiction."

"Please?" I cajole, and he relents.

"Okay," he sighs, and he follows me into the Ghirardelli store.

When we walk out again twenty minutes later, I've started buzzing through about a pound of chocolate and I _really_ don't care about anything else but it. Except maybe Sam.

And then I start thinking about drizzling chocolate over Sam and I have to get my mind off my twisted fantasies before I do something outrageous. While I'm preoccupied, though, he pulls me toward another clothing store.

Everything in Buckle, it turns out, is basically denim-themed. He manages to score three more pairs of jeans for me, all of which look good (to me, anyway—Sam doesn't answer when I ask for his opinion, which miffs me slightly), but I wear my first pair of jeans out of the store because I really don't feel like changing my pants right now.

"Now where to?" I ask, swinging the bag with my new jeans in it.

"Shirts, shoes, and then we should be ready to meet up with Dean and Cas again."

I almost forgot about them. Now that I realize my time alone with Sammy is drawing to a close, I want to drag it out, but I don't know how without being obnoxious. And as cute and endearing as I try to make myself, I sense that Sam is close to on his last nerve with me, so I let him herd me to Spencer's and we pick out about a dozen shirts for me.

After that, we head to a store called Journey's with shoes lining the walls floor to ceiling. "I figured these would probably be close to your style," Sam says, allowing me to wander away from him.

I examine a few shoes with the brand name Vans, but I don't like the slip-on style. I have a feeling I'd do more slipping off than on. Besides, if I have to run, shoes that lace up will be better.

I finally settle on a pair of black Macbeth shoes that, fortunately, fit me much better than the other ones do. And then I demand a pair of glow-in-the-dark shoelaces to go with them, which makes Sam laugh.

We meet up with Dean and Castiel shortly after. Castiel looks highly uncomfortable in his new jeans and button-down shirt, but both Dean and Sam insist that it's an improvement over his resemblance to a Holy Tax Accountant. I wonder what they did with his suit.

I cheerfully lead the way to the Impala as we head out to the parking lot, and I hear Dean sigh. "Really, Sam? Did you have to?"

I turn and Sam is looking sheepish, Dean is looking annoyed, and Castiel is giving me this penetrating look that lets me know he's looking right inside me. "What?" I ask.

"Your jacket," Dean says.

"What about it?"

He sighs and shakes his head. I look down at the front but see nothing, so I twist around to look at the back.

_Oh._ I hadn't seen it before, but there's a pair of wings on the back of my jacket. Angel wings, by the looks of them.

I shrug. _Whatever._

* * *

Sam and Bobby scour police and hospital records for other guys with the same characteristics as my abrupt return to consciousness: found somewhere with evidence of what should be a fatal accident with no actual injuries, just a really strong case of amnesia. They find nothing, and I start to wonder if it was actually a meteor in the first place.

"Did they find any meteor fragments where they found me?" I ask Sam a few days later, sucking on a cherry Jolly Rancher.

"No, I don't think so, but apparently someone got footage of what looks like a meteor falling to Earth and landing basically where you were found. We got a copy, but…"

"But?"

"It doesn't really look like any meteor I've ever seen."

"What do you mean?"

He sighs and hits a few keys on his laptop before turning the screen to face me. "Just look."

For a few moments, it's all just night sky, all stars and treetops. But then there's an echoing crack and a flash of white and gold light, and, distinctly, something hurtling through the atmosphere toward Earth. It's on fire, that's for sure, but it really doesn't look like a meteor. I can't really describe what it _does_ look like, though.

It streaks out of sight, and then a moment later, a thud and another flash as it makes contact. Meanwhile, the girl who's been filming this lets out a soft scream. "Call for help! Call the police! Eric, just call—"

Static.

I lean back and whistle softly. "That's intense."

"Doesn't look like a meteor, though, right?"

"Right. Well, maybe we go back? See if we can find something there?"

Sam shakes his head. "Dean and I scoured every inch of that place. There was nothing there. Maybe someone picked it up already, but when we went there to look it over, there was nothing but a crater."

Dean swaggers into the living room suddenly and hovers over me, tapping something in his hand. "Since you're basically part of our team now, Sam and I figured you'd need this." He drops two small plastic rectangles onto the table next to me and I pick them up, eyeing them with interest.

One has my picture on it, along with the name _Gabriel Richard Campbell_, a date of birth that says I'm twenty-six years old, and my height and eye color. A driver's license. "You teaching me how to drive?" I ask, flashing him a mischievous smile.

"Yeah, no, definitely not. I would _not_ trust you behind the wheel of a car," Dean snarks.

The other card is a credit card with the name _Gabriel R. Campbell._ "How'd you come up with Richard, anyway?"

"Hell, I don't know, we just picked a name, okay? What, do you not like it or something?"

I shrug. "It's fine. I just wondered, that's all."

Dean scoffs but wanders back out. I flip over my new driver's license—not that I can drive—and bite through the Jolly Rancher. "Well, at least it's a good picture," I say, holding it next to my face and smiling like in the picture.

"Yeah. We're gonna get you an FBI badge and a few others, too. Hopefully you can fake a fed better than Cas can. He can be a bit oblivious at times."

"That whole angel thing?"

"Yeah. He doesn't understand the necessity of deception sometimes."

I nod and start watching the video again. Bobby interrupts, though, dragging Dean and Castiel into the room behind him. "Found you another job. Another Lucifer sighting." He glances at me. "Maybe you shouldn't bring him along, though."

"I can handle it. Besides, Castiel is coming, isn't he?"

"I can't be responsible for your safety," he says.

"Hey, listen, we can't even figure out what I really am. If I get… ganked or whatever, how big of a loss is it? I mean, really?"

Dean looks uncomfortable. "As crazy and unbalanced as what you said sounds, I have to agree."

Sam's torn. He doesn't want me in danger, but he does want to see what I can do. In the past three weeks, I've shown a bizarrely remarkable proficiency in weapons handling. I'm not sure what I used to be before I wound up in the hospital, but I'm pretty sure I was a soldier somewhere.

And I want to fight.

He's the deciding vote. Dean and I are in favor of me going, but Bobby and Castiel are against it. Sam finally looks at me and says, "If you can't hack it, if no one is around to bail your ass out, your death is a very likely possibility."

As if I have anything else going on in my life. I shrug.

"Okay. Then fine. I say yes."

I grin.

* * *

There's another flash, a puff of smoke, and this demon they call Crowley is suddenly standing in Bobby's living room. I almost topple over—the guy's face is grotesque—but no one else seems to notice, so I keep it to myself. He's the first demon I've seen, so I figure all of them probably look like this, but no one _warned_ me.

So of course, once he gets his bearings, I'm the first thing he focuses on.

"What's this, boys? Got yourself a new member of Team Free Will?"

"Yeah, and?" Sam asks, defensively taking a step toward me.

Crowley narrows his eyes as he looks at me. "But what the Hell are you?"

"Great, even _you_ don't know. Wonderful." Dean crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, we were hoping you might be able to help us—"

"The great angel Castiel won't tell you?" Crowley asks, malice practically dripping from his voice.

"I don't know what he is," Castiel clarifies.

"So, recruit, what's your name?"

"Gabriel."

Crowley's eyes widen a bit. "Named after the recently-deceased archangel? Nasty. How've you been doing with that, by the way, Sammy?"

Sam half-glances at me, just long enough for his eyes to lock with mine, before he looks back at Crowley. "Screw you."

He just laughs as the world tilts away from me.

_A broken vessel, wings scorched. Lucifer standing over the empty shell that used to house his brother. It was Gabriel, right? But that doesn't look like the great archangel Sam described. That looks like—_

"Gabe!"

My eyes snap open and I'm staring at the ceiling. I must have crumpled to the floor. My back is killing me. I feel something in me, pounding, trying to break free. The truth, scratching at the wall in my head, screaming _"I'M HERE! COME AND GET ME!"_

But what's going on? I flinch as Sam gingerly helps me to my feet and I struggle to remember what I just saw, but I can only catch pieces. The face of Lucifer's vessel Nick flickers. A blue light. A shearing agony in my chest that doesn't only come from being stabbed through the heart.

I rub my chest to make sure I'm not actually bleeding. Crowley's gone and I wonder how long I was out of it until I register Sam's eyes looking me over with concern.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Did he do something to you? It… For a second, it looked like you were possessed," he says.

"I don't think he had anything to do with it. Where did he go? What happened?"

"Looked like a seizure," Dean says, _finally_ looking concerned. "Your eyes rolled back and you dropped." He looks back at Castiel. "Can you…?"

But Castiel is already striding forward, hand outstretched, and I brace myself for the same bit as last time. It comes, but I don't see anything new, anything I don't already remember from what I just saw. Still, when he pulls his hand away, his face is stunned. "When did you see Lucifer?"

"I don't _know_, okay? When I saw him—"

"Lucifer? You saw Lucifer?" Sam demands.

"Briefly. I know I saw more but it vanished. I don't know what else to tell you."

Sam sighs. "Great."

"You know," I say suddenly, feeling my temper flare and I'm unable to curb it, "I bet that mutton-head douche nozzle _did_ do something to me."

Sam starts laughing but quickly curbs it, but my temper subsides at the sound.

"You mean Lucifer or Crowley?" Dean asks. "Because if Lucifer—"

"I meant Crowley." I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. "I just really wish I knew what was going on." How do I tell them how close I was? That if Sam hadn't brought me out, I could have remembered everything? That when I think of Lucifer, I don't have the same shudder of revulsion run through me as they do, but an aching kind of sadness, a desperate feeling of betrayal? "Maybe I should just sit this one out," I murmur. "Until I get a better idea of what I really am, you know?"

Castiel's look is inquisitive, but Dean nods. He doesn't look happy, though. "Yeah, I guess so."

I don't want to be here with all their prying eyes on me so I turn and head out the back door. Before too long, I'm weaving through stacks of cars and trying to comprehend what I just saw.

Lucifer was important to who I was. I can feel that much. But _how_—that, I can't tell.

I lean back against a pile of cars and finally sink to a sitting position. _Why can't I remember anything?_ I want to scream. I try to scratch at the wall in my head, try to tear it down, but I don't get anywhere with it.

I could be ageless for all I know, hundreds of thousands of years old, and I wouldn't freaking know because of that stupid meteor or whatever it was that struck me. And how was I out in that field? How was it me that was hit? Of all the things that could have been hit, why me?

"Gabe?"

Somehow Sam snuck up on me. I turn to look at him, hoping it my frustration doesn't show on my face, but it probably does because he sits down next to me.

"Hey," I murmur, drawing my knees up to my chest.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm… I'm okay I guess."

"What happened in there?"

"You know what happened."

"I mean, what did you see?"

"Lucifer. I don't know, I just feel like I _knew_ him. He was important. I don't know how."

"You'll remember eventually."

"I'm not so sure."

"You already remembered Lucifer. That was more than you knew when we first met you, right?"

He has a point. I nod slowly. "Yeah, I guess."

"It'll be okay, Gabe. You'll remember. I'm sure of it."

I nod again, just humoring him. If I really _was_ a Trickster, how did I know Lucifer?

His arm slides around me and I feel myself leaning into him. "What if I don't, though?" I ask.

"You will," he insists. And then he turns his head to mine. His lips touch mine, gently, and for the briefest of moments, my heart stops. But then it starts up again.

_I'm hurtling toward Earth. I've been pushed, shoved through the atmosphere and I'm free-falling. I numbly feel the impact, barely have time to wonder what's happening, when I black out. When I wake up—really, truly awaken—I'm in the hospital._

_And I remember nothing._

"Sammy," I whisper.

His eyes open, confused. "What?"

"I remember… something. That footage. Let me see it again."

Five minutes later, I'm staring numbly at the screen. Whatever it is that's hurtling toward the Earth—I know now.

"What?" Sam asks, noticing my expression.

"That's not a meteor."

"Do you know what it is?"

I hit pause and point. "That's me."


	2. Part Two: Third Strike

They're stunned by the revelation that _I_ was the freaking meteor. Hell, it shocks _me_ to realize it. But it just reinforces what we don't already know, and now it's even more obvious that, whatever I used to be, I was extremely powerful.

It scares me because yeah, I _was_ powerful, but I'm not anymore—or if I am, I don't know how to tap into it anymore. I would do almost anything to figure it out, because every new discovery makes it even clearer that I would be an asset to "Team Free Will."

Over the past few weeks, the actual research part of discovering who or what I used to be dwindled a bit; they sort of expected me to recall it on my own. Instead, Bobby taught me to drive and gave me a car after Dean got it running again, Sam taught me how to play pool (at which I quickly became proficient, to the point of being able to hustle pool for a few hundred dollars a night), and Dean taught me how to pack salt rounds for a sawed-off he gave me.

But now, with two sudden trances, both of which triggered more repressed memories, I throw myself back into the task of sifting through supernatural lore to try to deduce what I am. Bobby helps me out with that, but he doesn't have the stamina I do: not only do I not require sleep or food, I can read incredibly fast and my memory (not counting what happened before the hospital) is eidetic.

Still, after another week of flipping through every book on the supernatural that Bobby owns—and not just the English ones; I'm somehow able to read every language I run across—I'm not making any headway, and neither is he. So far, the favored theory is still "fallen Trickster," but as time goes by, I'm becoming less and less convinced, although my constant sugar intake is evidence to support it.

Sam, Dean, and Castiel take off the day after we summon Crowley to see if they can find anything about this Lucifer sighting, but I have to admit to myself that I hope they don't find him. My fear is that Sam will give in and say yes to Lucifer and even though he says he won't, I can't help worrying. Neither can Dean or Bobby or Castiel, although none of them say it, either.

When they return, I'm relieved to learn they didn't run into Lucifer, but I'm less happy to discover that, suddenly, Dean is out of the equation: Michael has found a different vessel in the form of Adam Milligan, Sam and Dean's formerly-dead half-brother.

Suddenly, Dean is expendable.

Suddenly, Dean can be used even more effectively as leverage against Sam.

Suddenly, Sam is even more vulnerable now. With Dean rendered unnecessary, anyone on Lucifer's side can just kill him—although I suppose they could do it before, but now, Michael's side can kill him, too.

They didn't know about Adam's existence until a few years before this. Their father hid it from all three of them. By the time they found out, the real Adam had been dead for weeks to be replaced by a ghoul. They found out soon enough and managed to kill it, but apparently someone on Michael's side got fed up with Dean's persistent refusal and resurrected Adam, who said yes under the condition that his mother—who had also died with Adam at the hands of the ghoul—be resurrected, too.

Apparently, Michael agreed.

The night they return, the Winchesters stay up for hours, Sam helping me with research, Dean idly leafing through books but really studying the inside of a bottle. Bobby's drinking, too, but not quite as much as Dean, and Castiel is nowhere to be found—they tell me he's been summoned back to Heaven but should return soon.

Bobby's the first one to turn in for the night. Dean is technically the second, but he doesn't actually go to bed—he just falls asleep in his chair. Sam holds out the longest, occasionally running his fingers over the back of my hand in a way that's strangely comforting, but by one in the morning, he's gone up to bed, too, and I'm the only one awake.

And then I hear it.

"_GABRIEL."_

I freeze. The voice is loud and clear, as if whoever said my name was in the room with me, but I'm alone except for Dean, who's sleeping deeply. _What the—_

"_GABRIEL. I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. I'M COMING FOR YOU."_

I realize with a panicked jolt that it's Lucifer. I don't know how I know, but I just _know_.

"_I'M COMING FOR YOU, AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO STOP ME. I KNOW WHERE YOUR HEART IS, AND I'M COMING FOR IT. YOU WILL DIE AND UNLESS SAM SAYS YES, DEAN AND CASTIEL AND BOBBY WILL DIE, TOO. I KNOW HOW TO FIND YOU. I AM COMING FOR YOU, GABRIEL."_

"No," I breathe. Castiel mentioned he put sigils on Sam and Dean's ribs to hide them from angels, but I don't have them on mine. If Lucifer knows who I used to be, he can easily find me now.

Without hesitating another second, I jump out of my chair and start throwing my clothes into a duffle bag along with all of my IDs, although I purposely leave my phone, and I grab my keys and head out the door. I can't put Sam and Dean in danger anymore. My very presence is a hazard.

I can't let Lucifer find them. I don't care if he kills me, but Sam cannot say yes to him, and I won't help him find them.

I'm careful not to slam the door behind me as I flee the house.

* * *

Not for the first time, my lack of necessity for sleep has lent itself to usefulness. I can drive straight through the night, through the morning, for two days until I've left South Dakota long behind me and I finally stop in southern Alaska. The only times I ever stop driving during the trip are when I'm refilling the gas tank and stocking up on candy.

At first, I'm careful to use the cash I have on me because I know the Winchesters will probably put a trace on my credit cards. I only brought them for emergencies anyway, but by the time I hit the North Dakota/Canada border, I've completely refilled my tank and spent another seventy dollars on sugary snacks and soda (and a cooler and ice for the soda), all of which go on the Visa. Then I purposely drop the cards in the parking lot. In an effort to keep the Winchesters off my tail, I decide to let a few locals use the cards in case they do decide to trace me.

Driving through Canada sucks. I've just gotten used to monitoring my speed in miles per hour, so suddenly having to pace myself in kilometers per hour throws me off a bit, but I manage to avoid speeding too much and no cops pull me over. I consider myself pretty fortunate for that.

Crossing the border back into the US sets me on edge. I have a passport (faked, of course, just like nearly every other piece of legal documentation I have, but they're all excellent forgeries) but enough time has passed where it's entirely possible that Bobby or the Winchesters put traces on my IDs, too. I'm not sure if they would, or if they even could, considering that they're forgeries, but it's the not knowing that makes me nervous. I just can't let them know where I'm going, because I know them. They'll come and get me the moment they catch wind of where I am, and they'll just be putting themselves in danger.

I don't even call them to warn them, because they can probably trace the payphone I use. I realize too late I should have left a note, but I was in such a rush—and so paranoid about waking them up or Castiel coming back while I was leaving—that I didn't allow myself that time.

_Maybe they'll think I was kidnapped and my car was stolen._ But no, this is worse. If they think I left against my will, their efforts to get me back will be even stronger. No matter what, they'll try to bring me back and every scenario I entertain just makes it more obvious.

I don't allow myself to feel guilty, though, until I finally arrive in Alaska. Then I truly contemplate what I've done and how it must look to them.

I was a total stranger to them, and not even human, and they still brought me into their home, taught me to drive and shoot and gave me everything. They tried to help me discover who I was, indoctrinated me into the hunting business and "Team Free Will."

And the day after they discovered their previously-dead brother is Michael's new vessel, they woke up and realized I'd vanished, taking nearly everything I owned, all of it given to me by them, with me.

_Please forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, but I only did it to keep you safe. I can't let him find you._

As sick with grief and guilt as I am, I pull myself together and drive into a forest on the outskirts of some tiny town. I don't need food and I don't need sleep, so I don't really need money, so I don't really need a job. All I have to do is lie low until I catch wind of the ending of the Apocalypse or until I realize what I am. Then I'll return to South Dakota, find the Winchesters, and beg for forgiveness, hoping they'll understand.

Hoping that none of them are dead because I wasn't there.

Because what if one of them gets killed and I could have prevented it?

_No_, I tell myself. _That's why I left. To keep them safe. To prevent their deaths._

For three days, I stay in those woods, lying on the hood of the car, staring up at the sky. The night lasts longer up here and the days are colder, but I don't feel it even though I'm dressed only in my leather jacket, a T-shirt, and jeans. I feel that it _is_ cold, but I don't _feel_ cold. It's something I didn't realize about myself either until the temperature dropped to about forty one night a few weeks ago and Sam, Dean, and Bobby were all wracked with shivers and I just stood there, wondering what was going on. And then I saw that Castiel was just standing there, looking unimpressed with the weather, and I realized, again, that I'm not human and I have another ability.

It's peaceful out there, though. Less pollution in the air means I can see more stars at night. Sometimes I find myself slipping into a trance and I think I hear voices, but that thought frightens me and I quickly tune them out. My back is in a near-constant state of pain, but I'm able to block that out, too.

I could probably stay like this forever, trying not to think of Sam and instead focusing on piecing all these clues together. It's there, right there—I can feel it, I just know it's buried right beneath the surface, but there's one more thing I'm not seeing. It's so freaking close, it's frustrating.

Like I said, I _could_ stay here forever, but after three days, I hear that voice again. Except it's not in my head anymore—it's in the air around me.

"Hello, Gabriel."

I jerk upright and twist to face Lucifer, and there he is—still in Nick's body, I note with no small amount of relief—striding toward me. "Lucifer," I say, and my voice is colder than I expected.

"It's been awhile." He smirks. "You're a tough one to find, you know that? Only a week ago, I knew exactly where you were, and then—poof. You were just gone."

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Not like I was just gonna lead you straight to Sam Winchester."

"No, you _wouldn't_ make it easy on me, would you? But it doesn't matter. I'll get to him." The corner of his mouth quirks up into a confident smirk and he crosses his arms over his chest. "By the way, that was a really impressive trick you pulled back there. I actually believed it. I applaud you." He claps his hands twice before crossing his arms again. "You simply _have_ to tell me how you pulled that off." Sarcasm is practically dripping from his voice.

I have no idea what he's talking about, but I figure I should know, so I smoothly say, "A true Trickster never reveals his secrets."

He chuckles. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. You're just going to end up dead again anyway. There's not a damn thing you can do to stop me, either." He starts to uncross his arms and I see a silver blade slide out of nowhere. Before I even think, I slash my right hand through the air diagonally, from a spot near my left shoulder down to my right side. Almost immediately, Lucifer is knocked backward about ten feet and then he vanishes, looking stunned.

Hell, I bet _I_ look stunned, too. He's not dead—I can feel that much—but he's not here anymore, and for that, I consider myself lucky.

But then I hear the flutter of wings and I know I've been found again.

"Gabriel!"

It's Castiel's voice this time, a welcome change from Lucifer, but still not what I want to hear.

"Castiel—" I start, but he presses his hand to my chest and I feel a sharp burning on my ribs. I can't contain a hiss. "Jeez, that hurts!"

"It's supposed to," he growls. "I should have done that _weeks_ ago, when we found out Lucifer knew you. I should have realized he could follow you." He looks irritated as his blue eyes look me over. "You are an idiot," he mutters, and moves his hand from my chest to my arm.

We reappear at Bobby's and I swear that all four of them—well, maybe not Castiel, but Sam, Dean, and Bobby—look ready to punch me.

"What the Hell, Gabe?" Sam demands. "What were you thinking, going off on your own like that? Where _were_ you?"

"I was trying to protect you!" My temper is flaring again and I think Castiel's is, too because few light bulbs shatter, but I'm angry for good reason. Here I am, trying to keep them safe, and they just drag me back like they don't care about their safety.

"From what? _Lucifer_? We can keep ourselves safe from him without you running off without telling us. We thought you were dead!"

_It would be better if I was._ "You don't _get it_, Sam! He knew where I was! Somehow, he knew where I was and he was going to use me to get to you and Dean!"

Castiel has the strangest look on his face. "How do you know that?"

"I freaking _heard_ him, okay? Loud and clear in my head. He said he knew where I was and he… he was going to kill Dean unless Sam said yes to him. I couldn't let that happen. You're in danger just by being around me."

"Kill Dean?"

"And you and Bobby," I mutter. "What was I supposed to do, sit around and let him use me as a Winchester homing beacon? He _said_ he was going to kill me, so I wanted it to happen where none of you would get caught in the crossfire."

"You heard him in your head?"

"Yeah."

Castiel throws out his hand and pushes it against my forehead again. He quickly runs through everything that happened while I was gone, backtracking through to when I heard Lucifer's voice in my head, and then he stops. "What did he mean by 'you're just going to end up dead _again_'?"

"Like _I_ freaking know? I obviously knew him back when I was still important. Apparently, I was dead. I can't figure it out. But I was able to send him away from me."

"You actually saw him?" Sam demands.

"_He_ found _me_. If I had been here, he would have had a house full of leverage to use against you! I didn't want to put any of you in danger."

Dean and Bobby exchange glances before the elder Winchester says, "You should have at least told us you were going and _why_. Left a note, called us, _something_. As far as we knew…"

I can fill in the blanks he leaves when his voice trails off. As far as they knew, I'd defected or just been killed or was kidnapped. All sorts of terrible things.

_Please don't let him leave again._ Sam's thought, desperate and pleading, pops into my head without warning. I try not to react, but I can't keep my eyes from flickering toward him for a moment.

"I haven't seen many beings that could pull that off," Castiel murmurs.

"Pull what off?" I ask.

"What you did to Lucifer. To get him away from you. Although I suppose asking you how you did it is useless."

"It just came to me."

Castiel looks frustrated as he vanishes with another flutter of wings.

"Look, boy," Bobby says to me now in a lecturing tone, "the next time you hear Lucy talking to you, you let us know. And let us know the moment you want to go tearing off somewhere for our protection."

"He probably won't be able to find me so easily now. Castiel carved those sigils onto my ribs while we were still back in Alaska."

"You went to _Alaska_?" Sam demands.

"I had to get as far from you as I could, and I figured Maine was too obvious."

He groans in frustration and I drop onto the couch. I have a lot to ponder now.

* * *

I'm back at Bobby's desk again that night, flipping through more books. I don't want to waste a single second now—Lucifer knows what I am, and I don't. I need to figure it out, because the sooner I do, the sooner I can help keep them safe instead of making myself a liability.

I guess I'm so intent in my study that I don't hear Sam come down the stairs or into the living room or even notice him crossing the room—I don't notice him at all—until I feel his arms sliding around my chest from behind, pulling me firmly against him.

"I thought he killed you," he whispers, almost whimpers, into my ear.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," I sigh, closing the book I'm reading. "I just reacted. I didn't realize—" I freeze when he presses a kiss to the side of my neck.

"I missed you," he murmurs.

"I was only gone five days," I point out.

"Felt like five years. We were worried sick. Even Cas."

His proximity triggers something both strange and familiar. It bubbles just beneath the surface of my consciousness, teasing me with things I should remember. Things I _could_ remember.

His arms are so long that he's able to wrap them all the way around me and hold my sides in his hands. He runs his fingers over my ribs and I'm forcefully reminded of the sigils carved onto them, but I lean back into his body. I can't resist, and I don't want to.

"A few hours won't make a difference. Come on," he says softly, gently tugging me to my feet, and a flash of his thoughts hits me. He wants me with him. Somehow, he feels protected from Lucifer when I'm around, and he wants me there while he sleeps. A wave of pleasure runs through me and I follow him up the stairs, his fingers twined through mine.

He missed me. He trusts me. I make him feel safe. I feel suddenly blessed, and I wonder how I was able to leave in the first place. Even though he hasn't admitted it, even to himself, I know he loves me, and I feel special. Sam doesn't truly love many people, but those that he does… they're lucky to be on the receiving end. He loves people fiercely—he would go to Hell for his brother, just like Dean did for him, he would face Lucifer for Bobby… he would do anything for me, even knowing as little as he does about me. For whatever either of us can sense that I've done, he's forgiven me.

I must have been good, because he wouldn't love me otherwise.

Sam crawls into his bed and looks at me expectantly, confirming my suspicions: he means for me to watch over him, to _cuddle_ with him while he sleeps, and I slide under the covers next to him. He throws an arm around me and I sink into him, half-wishing I could sleep because it would be peaceful tonight. But I have to keep him safe from Lucifer, and that's exactly what I'll do.

Maybe twenty minutes pass, and the telltale even breathing of sleep hasn't filled the room. Sam is still awake even though his eyes are closed, and for once, I can't tell what he's thinking—if he's thinking anything at all.

But then he puts his other arm around me and I melt into him. His mouth is moving against my neck and he's pushing up my shirt and I wish I could just will away our clothes, but I can't. I offer up a silent prayer of thanks that at least Sam is only wearing jeans—no shirt and no socks, both of which would be an annoyance—and I quickly unbutton them. A moment later, he's sweeping my shirt over my head and running his fingers over my skin possessively, and I suddenly have the crazy thought that I was made for him.

"Gabriel," he says softly, almost like he's praying, and he starts kissing a line down my chest, making me shiver but I don't want him to stop. He skims his fingers down my sides, tugs at my jeans, pulls them down, and I fist my hands in his long, silky hair.

He's so warm. I can't keep my hands off him—not that I want to or anything. And his fingers are magic when he presses them inside me. I'm being worked over and every time he hits that spot, I feel another spark and I know I'm close—close to remembering, close to coming—but I don't care.

"Sammy, _please_," I gasp, surprising me, and I rock against his fingers, aching for release.

"Please what?" he breathes and he grazes that spot again.

I hiss in pleasure, momentarily blind, and the words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them. "Please, Sammy. Need you. _Need you_. Inside me, _please_. Now!"

He groans. "God, Gabe," he breathes. He presses his face to my neck and then, just as I begged him, he pushes into me.

_Oh, yes, he feels amazing._

Next to the bed, light bulbs burst but I don't care. Sam doesn't, either, apparently.

I wish I could say I last longer, but he feels so damn good inside me that it only takes a few more thrusts to send me, crying out his name and not giving a damn if Dean and Bobby can hear me, over the edge, into that chasm of utter pleasure, and I fall.

_Impact. Falling. Being pushed. Father's laughter, Father's voice. Flying. Pain, betrayal. Lucifer plunging my blade into my chest. I had to save them._

_Gabriel. They call me Gabriel. I am an archangel. I am the Norse god Loki. I am every Trickster that ever walked this planet. I died at the hands of my brother Lucifer to try to save Sam and Dean Winchester and the Indian goddess Kali. My Father brought me back._

_I am alive._

"Gabe?" Sam's eyes are wide, concerned. "Gabe, did I hurt you?"

I have no idea how I must look—hair tousled, eyes wide, finally seeing, _really_ seeing what I've been through, what's happened—but I imagine it's a bit wild, maybe even panicked. But I feel calm suddenly, filled with _finally_ knowing, remembering everything. "You couldn't possibly hurt me, Sam."

"But you—it looked like you blacked out. Are you okay?"

_How do I tell him?_ "I'm fine." I feel that throbbing at my shoulder blades again and I finally realize it's my wings. _My wings._ I've accidentally been crushing them for the past few months. I had them this whole time and never knew it. "Sam, I… I remember everything."

"Y-you do? You know what you are?"

I nod, and then, knowing no other way to tell him quickly, to keep him from interrupting, I press my palm to his forehead. His eyes close and he's drifting. I'm correcting all the memories he had of the archangel Gabriel being this Italian SOB and putting myself back in his place.

"Jesus Christ!" His eyes snap open as I lift my hand. "Oh, my God, Gabriel!" He throws his arms around me and I could swear he's sobbing. "You were dead. Oh, God, he killed you."

I hold him and I finally figure out why my Father sent me back in this same vessel. I _was_ made for Sam. My size sparks something inside him, something he needs, and at the end of the day, I was intended for him. It's ironic, too, and I've always been a fan of irony. Ironic that a vessel this small holds so much power—I'm the most powerful archangel after my brother Michael, and no one would expect me to be sixty-eight inches tall.

"It's okay, Sammy," I whisper, running my fingers over his skin. "It's okay. My Father sent me back. He brought me back for you."

He leans back and yes, he _is_ crying. "Lucifer killed you. I thought…" I wipe a few tears away from his face as he takes a breath and gathers his thoughts. "I thought you were gone for good. Gone forever. If he'd still been there when we realized you were dead, I would have tried to kill him. That's why I've been so obsessed with finding him, too—before you came back, I mean. I wanted to kill him for killing you. I'd never say yes to him after that.

"And then we found you," he goes on. "And I didn't know who you were at the time but it felt like I knew you. Like you were familiar. And it hurt so much because I thought you were causing it and trying to make me forget and I didn't _want_ to forget. I couldn't let you go. I couldn't…" His voice trails off and he pulls me to him again.

"I recognized you, too. I don't know how, but I did. I felt it. But I'm back, so stop crying, okay? I can't stand to see you upset." I kiss the side of his neck before I can stop myself. "Just get some sleep. I'm not leaving. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Don't wanna sleep," he murmurs even as he sinks back down under the blankets and I pull them up over us.

"You have to. You're human. Humans need sleep."

Fortunately, he stops fighting, but I'm not surprised. A combination of sex and the late hour takes hold, and within minutes, he's asleep.

* * *

When he wakes up after hours of sleep, he looks confused and surprised for the briefest of moments until he remembers. "Gabriel? Was I dreaming?"

"I don't know," I answer with a smile. "If you're referring to us christening your sheets and then me remembering everything, then no, that wasn't a dream."

He grins with relief. "Oh, good." He hugs me tightly and I kiss the top of his head.

"We should go downstairs."

"Why?"

"There _are_ other people who might be interested in this development. My being an archangel, I mean," I clarify at the disapproval on his face, and I know he thought I meant the sex thing.

"Oh." He nods. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Come on." I grab his wrist and a moment later, we're standing in the kitchen, fully clothed and with the flutter of my wings—_my wings!_ That thought still sends a wave of delight through me—signifying our arrival.

Dean and Bobby, strangely, don't seem to notice the sound or our sudden appearance, but Castiel stares at me and I know he can tell who I really am now. His eyes go wider every second until I think they'll pop out of his head. I toy with making that happen, but decide now probably isn't the time. "Hey, little bro," I say cheerfully. "Miss me?"

Startled, Dean snaps his head from the look on Castiel's face to me. "'Little bro'?" he repeats. "What the Hell—?"

"Come here," I say, waving him over from where I've moved to stand next to Bobby.

Suspiciously, hesitantly, he obeys, and I cross my arms and press my hands to their foreheads at the same time.

When Dean's eyes finally open, he yells, "You son of a bitch! What the Hell, man? I mean, Lucifer _ices_ you and you freaking—"

"_Dean_," Castiel says in a way that makes him take notice. Castiel is still staring at me, though. "He didn't plan this. Our Father raised him from the dead."

"Daddy wanted me back, probably to bail you chuckleheads out of trouble. His exact words were, 'The Winchesters still need you.'" I neglect the other half of Father's statement, that _I_ need _them_.

Bobby, meanwhile, has remained silent this whole time. Finally, he says, "Well, I guess that answers a lot of questions. Like how you survived a freefall from Heaven, for one."

"And how Lucifer knew who I was. Father told me that he and Michael wouldn't recognize me until I was ready, so I must have been ready about a week ago."

They're quiet, and I can suddenly feel the common thought running through the room. _Where's Michael?_

Now _I'm_ wondering the same thing. "Good question. Perhaps he doesn't feel the need to check in on me—although if I still have those sigils, he probably just can't find me." I snap my fingers and a box of Runts appears, just floating next to me. I'm feeling better now, just like my old self, knowing that I can bend the laws of physics at will.

What I really want, though, is to be able to fully stretch out my wings. The kitchen is pretty big and I could shrink them before I spread them, but even if there wasn't a single wall in the house, I wouldn't be able to stretch them to their full extent in here. I need to be outside for it.

It feels good, though—finally knowing. Even after all the crap I pulled, how I abandoned my family, I was still given a second chance.

"So, now what?" Dean asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, with the Apocalypse. Bringing down Lucifer. Are you still on board to help us, or…?"

"What a stupid question. I already died for you mutton-heads once. You should know by now that I'd do it again."

Sam chokes out a laugh. "Team Free Will for life."

* * *

It's a bright day, shiny and warm, not the kind of day you'd expect for a cataclysmic showdown between Michael and Lucifer. Although Michael's nowhere to be found. I'm in his place now, glaring at Lucifer who is still, fortunately, not in his appropriate vessel.

"I don't know how you pulled off that trick, Gabriel, but it doesn't matter. I'll just kill you again. And again and again. And every time you come back, I'll just be there to kill you again. Just give up."

"I'd like to see you try to kill me one last time."

I feel the rush of fear that runs through Sam as he thinks, _Don't take him again. He can't die again. Please, not again._

I want to reach out and tell him it'll be okay, but I'm too preoccupied with my brother returning my glare.

"If you back off, I won't have to try. Hand over Sam, and I'll leave you to Michael. At least _he_ tends to show a bit of mercy."

"Sam wouldn't say yes to you, even if I wanted to hand him over. You pretty much guaranteed that he'd never say yes after you killed me the first time. Now quit being a bag of dicks and go back into your cage."

Lucifer lets out a bark of laughter. "Only Michael will be able to do that. There's no way you can. Killing you the first time was almost too easy. Killing you again will be easy, too. But I would love to see you try. Or, you can run and I'll spare your life."

"Not a chance, Lucy."

Lucifer's eyes narrow. "Well, I would say I'm sorry for this, but…" His blade, his archangel's blade, flashes suddenly and he moves faster than I expect, catching me off-guard. Before I can truly prepare myself, he's closed the few feet between us and shoved it into my chest.

I hear Sam's mental scream of _"NO!"_ but he doesn't actually cry out—Dean or Castiel must have silenced him. But it doesn't matter.

Lucifer is staring at me now, something akin to fear creeping across his face. I realize that I haven't dissolved into nothing again.

"Ow," I say. "That freaking hurts, bastard." I grip the handle and pull the blade out of my chest. _What the Hell?_

I look from him to the blade and back—yes, it's really his blade. A real archangel's blade, the only thing that can kill another angel—except for holy oil—and yet, I'm still alive.

Without letting myself contemplate it further, I thrust it into _his_ chest. To everyone's surprise, including mine, the blade works as intended, and Lucifer's vessel is sinking to his knees, blasts of blue and white light flashing from his eyes and mouth, and then he's dead, Lucifer's really dead, and Nicholas is lying there, arms spread and his blue eyes wide open, Lucifer's wings scorched into the dirt beneath him, and I suddenly feel pity for Nick. He didn't know this was going to happen. He couldn't have.

There's a wedding band on Nick's left hand and I wonder about his wife, wonder if she ever imagined this for him before she and their child died.

He was desperate. Desperate people do desperate things. I hope my Father will forgive him. He doesn't deserve Hell, not after all this.

I sink to one knee and close his eyes.

"Gabriel?"

I turn and Sam is walking toward me, looking puzzled and relieved.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I think… I think when my Father brought me back, he made me stronger. I can't know for sure, because no other archangel has died and, therefore, needed to be brought back to life, but I think He changed his mind about the battle."

"What do you mean?"

"Michael has been in Heaven for millennia. He hasn't been here, walking the Earth like I have. This battle was supposed to be a fight for the fates of the human race, but Michael and Lucifer's fight was going to be a battle royale between two pissed-off brothers and that's it, with the humans just as side notes. That's not how it was supposed to go down. So Father changed it, replaced Michael with me because I've been down here. It was back to how it was supposed to be, making a stand, saving humans. Only an archangel who loved humans could have done it." Or loved a _certain_ human, but I decide to keep that to myself.

Castiel chuckles softly, a surprisingly human action that I don't expect. "He would change it, wouldn't He?"

Sam and Dean grin, and the elder Winchester looks skyward. He sounds amused, even happy, as he laughs, "Michael is going to be _pissed_."


End file.
